Poet's Corner

[Phactotum]

YOU. ES. MESS! ij. BORED!!

I went surfed around the web, found this one 'phorem' when some decorum there interested me/wasn't boredom. 'Twas a cool eLagoon, where open-minds can loom
or...so I thought! Until vultures appeared @ high noon []... high, soon was killt! Like, volts' shorted out my quilt: on coldest winter days --like Jan6th's Dems built!! yep their committee did appear, just to defecate their fear --so when its 6 vs 1-of-me?? shifted gun throttle to 6th gear! Sixth peer teamed up, but my veracious posts sealed 'em: So, then there was only 5 --after Elvis left the building() now reverse the '6 White' and then, your mental just might... Identify the lone committee member, who was RIGHT!

Was fright, their Meal Of The Day upon their venue? When I put those 5 Flagrant Formics, on the menu?!! Gon continue to be 'thorn' in the side of an 'EGO TRIP'! So thanks, for experiencing this poetically-quik quip

 

[ShahdagMountains]

I miss England. I’ve hardly posted about the trip at all, I know. I’m sorry. We arrived home sick and then birthdays, Thanksgiving, then traveling for Christmas happened. Once we finally caught our breath it’s now been over two months since we were there.
This recent trip was about family—about introducing the children to international travel and stretching beyond their (and my!) comfort zones.
It wasn’t about writing.

But to me, England is always about writing. That’s where the greats were—Tolkien, Lewis, Dickens, Rowling. There’s something about that place. England culture contains an unexplainable intentionality that, no matter how I flounder, I can never put into the right words. From playground equipment to the quality of groceries, from how a coffee is served to its delightful walking culture, from physical bookstores to castle ruins to history and architecture…

There’s a slowness there that I crave constantly when I’m away from it. It has nothing to do with a stamp in my passport or the love of travel. It’s something much deeper that I can’t rightly express. That deepness is what makes me want to write.
I don’t get to write today, but I dream of the day I’ll return there with my children—a little older—and we’ll adventure and write and create and breathe together in a way that was impossible this time around. Then I’ll sit by a window (or better yet, a river!) and pen a new story.

Ironically enough, when I lived in York I hardly wrote. But I grew so so much as a person. And that, in a way, is the same as writing.
When I think of God’s creativity I cannot help but think of the many different cultures that exist and the different inspirations that come from them. He truly is the most imaginative Creator.

Is there a place or setting that feels like your creative home? Even if you can’t go there often?

Nadine Brandeis - Author.​

​

 

[ShahdagMountains]

 

[lg325]

Very soon you will be gone,
So who are you today?
A brilliant soul or silhouette
Of conscience on display,

The bridge between the hopes and dreams
Of those who call you “Friend,”
A drop of rain that sings the pain
Of sweet, sweet Summer’s end,

The naked eye that stops to cry
Then searches ever more,
The distant ear that strains to hear
The waves upon the shore,

The traveler bound from town to town
Who marks upon the road,
The loving heart that seeks to see
Compassion is bestowed,

The canvas for the golden ink
You scribble line by line,
The darkness of the rapid blink
That lasts for all of time,

The orange of October
And the purple of the sky,
The wonder in a child’s gaze
That makes him question “Why,”

The joyous tears and daunting fears
Of cowards and the brave,
The dreamers and the destinies
Of those you wish to save,

The perfectly imperfect lot
Of stones upon the ground,
The permanence of all that’s lost
In everything you’ve found,

The answers to the questions
That are woven in your mind,
The setting sun for which you run
But always fall behind,

The sober drop of honest truth
You taste upon your tongue,
The bloody passion in your veins
That pleads your song be sung,

And have you held your precious gifts
Or given them away?
For very soon you will be gone,
So who are you today? ( Title- Who Are You Today by Jordan Salkin. Winner of Poem of the Year
At Poetry.com)

 

[beautress]

bearing weight on shoulders
stretching neck left, right
little crackling noises
in the evening light

looking past the blue fence
cars go tos and fros
in the darker evening
driven fast by pros

princess in the corner
dreaming canine thought
poses with feet touching
as a puppy ought

now the sky is darker
heaven in the night
dots electric brighter
clouds hiding starlight

yesteryears were cheerful
with a love quite deep
now he humors angels
so they cannot weep

engineering volumes
now on dusty shelves
shadowed by time passage
oft ignored by elves

 

[ShahdagMountains]

The Rain George L. Borges

Suddenly the evening has cleared
because it's already pouring rain.
Fall down or fall down. The rain is a thing
that definitely happens in the past.
Who hears the fall has recovered
the time when luck ventures
he revealed a flower called Rose
and the curious color of Colorado.
This rain is blinding glass
will rejoice in lost harvesters
the black grapes of a certain bitch
yard that no longer exists. The wet
late brings me the voice, the desired voice,
from my father who returns and who is not dead.

Book: The Doer 1960.

 

[ShahdagMountains]

“Any idiot can face a crisis; it's this day-to-day living that wears you out.”

— Anton Chekhov.

 

[ShahdagMountains]

"Sometimes I think nothing makes sense." On a tiny planet, running towards nowhere for millions of years, we are born in the midst of pains, we grow, we fight, we get sick, we suffer, we make suffer, we scream, we die, we die, and others are being born to start the useless comedy again. Would it really be that? Would our whole life be a series of anonymous screams in a desert of indifferent stars? "

Ernesto Sabato / The Tunnel

 

[ShahdagMountains]

"Above all, do not lose your desire to walk. Everyday, I walk myself into a state of well-being and walk away from every illness. I have walked myself into my best thoughts, and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it. But by sitting still, and the more one sits still, the closer one comes to feeling ill. Thus if one just keeps on walking, everything will be all right."

~Søren Kierkegaard


Image: art by Amanda Claire.

 

[beautress]

driving through the country
Knotty rode to see
with his loyal presence
sitting close to me

not a single road lamp,
red light, shop or store
only farms near prairies
and the forest floor

u-turn muddy driveway
time to go back home
seeing sights in reverse
no more will to roam

 

[ShahdagMountains]

"We do not have to walk in space or on water to experience a miracle; the real miracle is to be awake in the present moment. Walking on the green Earth, we realize the wonder of being alive."

- Thich Nhat Hanh

 

[ShahdagMountains]

From The New Yorker - 'Edward Hopper (Yellow and Red)' by W.S. Di Piero.

 

[ShahdagMountains]

Come away, O human child,
To the waters and the wild,
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
~ W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)

If this scene in Donegal isn't the stuff of fairy tales, then I don't know what is.

(M)

Pic. Irina Smith.

 

[lg325]

Come away, O human child,
To the waters and the wild,
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
~ W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)

If this scene in Donegal isn't the stuff of fairy tales, then I don't know what is.

(M)

Pic. Irina Smith.

View attachment 925380

I love the pic. Where is it from? It's the first I have heard the name Donegal since a child I knew a young woman by that name.

 

[ShahdagMountains]

I love the pic. Where is it from? It’s the first I have heared the name Donegal sincea child I knew a young woman by that name.

This is all l got.

Pic. Irina Smith.

 

[ShahdagMountains]

'It shall be cause of war and dire events,
And set dissension 'twixt the son and sire;
Subject and servile to all discontents,
As dry combustious matter is to fire:
Sith in his prime Death doth my love destroy,
They that love best their loves shall not enjoy.'

~ William Shakespeare, Venus and Adonis

 

[ShahdagMountains]

 

[ShahdagMountains]

 

[ShahdagMountains]

“Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”


~Mary Oliver, “The Summer Day”

 

[ShahdagMountains]

“We protect our minds by an elaborate system of abstractions, ambiguities, metaphors and similes from the reality we do not wish to know too clearly; we lie to ourselves, in order that we may still have the excuse of ignorance, the alibi of stupidity and incomprehension, possessing which we can continue with a good conscience to commit and tolerate the most monstrous crimes”

― Aldous Huxley, The Olive Tree and other essays